A Collection
by WitheringWeasel
Summary: Drabbles from the rabble. Short stories about Brooke and Sam, occasionally Brooke or Sam. Please enjoy.
1. Confections

Disclaimer: Nothing about these characters are mine. They belong to Ryan Murphy and probably someone else. I claim nothing.

AN: Drabbles, because I can't keep my hands off this keyboard. I was planning to wait until I had at least 20 in the bank, but I got to 10 and realized I couldn't, and you probably didn't want me to. Criticism is highly appreciated.

Prompt (Does it actually count if I made up the prompt myself?): Confections

* * *

Sam knew, vaguely, at present, about Brooke's struggles with eating disorder. She knew intently that it was no light matter.

She couldn't help but marvel though, thinking that smile could ever be starved, it was so incredibly sweet.

Because Brooke would always be Sam's favorite confection.

* * *

On days when she didn't feel like eating, she would follow Harrison's lead at lunch, confiding in his childish grin, in his genuine friendship.

But when he wasn't there for dinner, she always found a reason to eat. Sometimes, it was a homemade meal from Sam, made with love and presented with haughty looks as a cover up for concerns.

Sometimes, it was the guarantee of a cuddle on the couch if she agreed to a (not too greasy) pizza during a movie. Sam would even let Brooke pick the movie if she sensed urgency.

Sometimes it was the distraction of Sam's eyes across the dinner table, promising a full night of devouring.

Whatever the circumstance, her high school living situation left Brooke with one unavoidable thought: Sam would always be her favorite indulgence.


	2. Soft

Soft

Brooke loved Sam's soft hands, her soft hair, her soft skin, the thoughtful gestures that wrapped themselves around Brooke's heart like a fleece blanket.

But she never could stand the thought of Sam's words being soft. She loved the harsh, fierce edge in her eyes and the lilt of confidence and passion in her voice, even when she argued the most illogical cases, desperation only hardening her convictions. It turned her on like a match to a cardboard house filled with paper and gasoline.

But the day that Sam turned to her with her eyes brimming with tears – vulnerable, and softly whimpered, Brooke decided that, maybe, being entirely soft (and kind of cuddly) was okay sometimes, too.


	3. Understand

Understand

(It's not the slang of my country, but I really enjoy the word "snog". It should be more apparent in the American version of our language.)

Brooke wouldn't have ever told Nicole.

Brooke had thought about telling her, sure. This was a big deal. She liked someone. Liked someone enough for her judicious and stalwart mind to start thinking about calling it love. Before she and Sam had realized just how mutual their likings were, it had made her distraught enough to evoke a "What's wrong, Brookie?" from her short haired friend in question. Brooke had had plenty of time to tell her.

But what would she have said? Nicole wouldn't have reacted well. Sam and Brooke had both agreed to keep their relationship under wraps for now, only telling those they trusted the most. As much as Brooke trusted Nicole, the diva's main concern seemed to be with public matters that would affect school hierarchy. She could be intensely hot and cold with any particular subject. Brooke figured for how much Nik insulted Sam, she wouldn't *want* to know something so personal.

Which is why Nicole had to walk in on Brooke mid-snog with Sam to know about it. Which, as Brooke follows Nicole's figure storming out of the house, retrospectively seems like a less pleasant way for Nik to find out.

"Nicole, wait, I can-"

"What, 'explain', Brooke? I don't need explanation, I don't need details, and I don't need whatever minutia was about to come out of your mouth. I'm just hurt that you didn't trust me enough to tell me."

"It's not that I don't trust you, I just… didn't think you wanted to know."

"Well, if I had known there was any possibility you'd be sucking face with that-"

"She's a human, Nicole, please use the proper species."

"Whatever. If it was anything like a possibility, I wouldn't have ever barged in like that. If not because you can depend on me, at least have some pity for me."

"Nicole, I'm genuinely sorry. Is there anything I can do to make it better?"

"It's fine, Brookie. More hunks for me. Just as long as you promise you'll tell me about things in the future. Only big things, though. No mushy crap."

They hugged, bff status saved for the night.

"Is she any good?"

"What? I thought you said no details..."

"Well, if my Queen B is going to settle for a pauper like… that… I assume there's some redeeming quality."

Brooke laughed the end of the conversation, Nicole offering a chuckle.

"Well, educational as this night was, I think I best be getting home. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Nik."

Gracious grins that had sprouted as Nicole's car drove away were quickly kissed away into the sweetest smiles that had ever graced her lips.


	4. Campy Part 1

Disclaimers still apply

Campy! Part 1 (!)

She much preferred shopping, staying in and watching movies, or at least sleeping in a bed, but she could learn to like camping, too. It was refreshing in a lot of ways, to be out in the open air, no pressures, and a week of catching up with her father, and his surprisingly likeable fiance. And sharing a tent with Sam. She probably would have put that at the top of the 'pros' list, but she'd never admit that out loud. However, Brooke was a little bit surprised (though she probably shouldn't be) and either a little bit put off or turned on (when it comes to Sam, there's a fine, fine line) by a turn in Sam's behavior. She'd taken to reclusive walks and sitting on rocky outcrops, watching the sky and the trees, probably thinking about philosophy or writing poetry.

Tonight was spent the same way. Brooke found Sam sitting on a hill a short way away from camp, wrapped in a blanket, looking sexy. _Pensive. She looks pensive._

"What's up, Sammie?"

"Just thinking. It's like the moon leads a double life…" Sam trailed off, eyes trained on the giant white orb hovering above her nose. The seconds of silence and inquisitive eyes begged an explanation, "It assures the sun that it will always come in second place, hiding by day, but as soon as the sun skirts away over the horizon, it brings this place a second life... that's sort of more beautiful than the sun's."

"How poetic. Did you remember your poetry book, Hemmingway?"

"Haha, you don't appreciate the beauty of small observations. How surprising."

"I appreciate beauty just fine, thank you."_ I appreciate you, after all, Sammie._ "I also appreciate not-freezing to death." Sam's eyes rolled but she lifted her blanket, ushering Brooke in. The blanket wasn't big enough to allow space between their bodies (Which was not at all part of Brooke's plan…), so Brooke ended up half on Sam's lap and entirely in bliss. Surprisingly to Brooke, Sam continued their banter like cuddling for warmth was part of the routine.

"Although I wouldn't dispute if you wanted to remark on his double life. I guess he's got nothing on us, rivals to the death during school." Sam paused and looked down at Brooke, "But friends behind closed and heavily guarded secret doors..."

"Friends..." a hint of disdain gleamed in Brooke's voice, and she stiffened tentatively against Sam's shoulders.

"Well, yeah, unless I'm just making an ass out of myself and prematurely assuming that you admitting you enjoy my company was a gesture of friendship..."

"No, it's fine... You're right." _For now..._ Brooke thought, settling into the crook of Sam's arms, grin teeming with designs for seduction.


	5. Campy Part 2

Disclaimer: I don't own characters or canon story.

Campy! Part Deux et finale!

"It's really cramped in here."

"It's really cold in here..."

"Should've brought that extra blanket, right, Princess."

Brooke was a little disappointed that Sam's claustrophobic cynicism wasn't conducive to cuddling.

"Well, at least it's not really wet in here." Sam instantly regretted making that statement, as not a second later the first drops of the soon-to-be thundering rainstorm splattered on the top of the tent.

Brooke turned to Sam, mischievous thoughts struggling to escape her. She lifted an edge of her deluxe, doubled sized sleeping bag and patted the ground.

"Double bed is nice and cozy..."

Sam grumbled, but dislodged herself from her sleeping bag to join Brooke.

"Why the sudden change of mind? Don't tell me the great Sam McPherson is scared of thunderstorms!"

"Don't push it, Brooke." Sam muttered, wiggling into place.

A few moments passed before Brooke sighed, a new topic gracing the air.

"Friendship is... warm."

Sam turned her head, bringing the two face to face, "Yeah..."

As her voice trailed off into the raucous air, Sam licked her lips. Her eyes turned dark and questioning, intently searching Brooke. For that instant, Brooke flushed, imagining, _knowing_ that Sam had seen right through her. Within seconds, Sam's gaze relaxed, her usual smirk regaining her lips.

She turned over, relaxing again, pulling Brooke's free arm across her body and lacing their fingers together, sending shockwaves through Brooke's blood vessels.

"Friendship. It's nice." The pointed statement was simple, conclusive, and oozing with undertones.

Brooke's breath came in deep, slow gasps to keep up with her pounding heart. Sam knew. Sam knew everything. Every plan, dream, fantasy was in the open. And Sam wasn't going to do anything about it. She'd just roll over with that gorgeous smile, ready to hold it over Brooke's head for eternity, pretending she knew nothing. Torturous, feigned ignorance.

'_But_' she thought as Sam's sleeping form sighed and twitched, tightening the lock of their fingers, '_Maybe not all forms of torture are bad_."


	6. Tactile

Disclaimers claim that I don't own these characters or story! They are both accurate and apply here!

Tactile

Brooke was never a very tactile person. Self esteem low enough to cause (or be the product of; who really knew?) an eating disorder didn't do wonders for social confidence.

She wondered sometimes if those inhibitions were what kept her from being intimate with Josh for so long. She didn't mind kissing him, hell, making out was pretty darn nice some times. His body was certainly touchable, and when she did, she felt like she had bested herself, like she wasn't doing something wrong. She was normal.

It wasn't until Sam that she grasped the difference between "not feeling like she was doing something wrong" and "doing something right". So absolutely, consumingly right.

Because, inhibitions aside, Brooke was never a very innocent person.


	7. Journalist

Disclaimer: I do not own characters or original story.

2nd Disclaimer: I do not in anyway speak French. Please do not punch me in the face for getting it wrong. Please do tell me if it is, and maybe suggest something different.

Journalist

As a journalist, Sam was prone to processing things like one. Objective, objective, objective, with a splash of fierce, correct opinion for color- that was her way.

She sometimes organized her thoughts as though she were writing for a paper. Even if it was the pervasive, hard hitting societal pressures she loved to focus on, once in a while she planned out some other columns. Obituaries for "Justice" whenever the world favored the pretty people, for "Intelligence" whenever she came into contact with Mary Cherry, classifieds for the assassination of Ms. Glass the day before a test.

Some days, over analyzation and satire were what saved her hormone cluttered mind from exploding. Some days, it was just something fun to do while Brooke was on the road with the Glamazons and gone for a few days.

For the past few days, she'd been doing special interest columns, Sei Shonagon style, in neat little lists, skimming off all the fluff for fast and easy public consumption (not that _anyone_ else would ever read these).

Today, her topic was "kisses".

Pecks- innocent, pleasant, chaste demonstration of affection, used in public situations to say "hello" and "goodbye" when no one is watching. Best when accompanied by her smile.

Lingering- Also innocent, pleasant, and relatively chaste, but with promise for more. Best when we pull away, smile, I tuck her gorgeous hair behind her ear, and pull her back for more.

Passionate- Also called "open mouth" by the non-bourgeois masses. Between lingering and French. Best when not interrupted by parents.

French- Parlez vou France? Ma langue le parle. And so does yours. Best when she pushes me up against the wall after an argument, hands tangled in my hair, fire in her eyes. One of the most coveted techniques of the teenage psyche/playbook.

Neck- Mmmmmmmm... need I say more? Best when she comes up from behind sweeping my hair to the side and nuzzling before going in for the kill.

Ear - She goes crazy for these. Best when I tease for a little bit, then hit the right spot and she moans.

Sam flopped back on her bed, sighing and rereading her newest entry. 'God it's so mushy.' Her thoughts flickered back to a conversation in Psychology class about unfulfilled sexual needs exhibiting themselves subtly (or not so subtly) in everyday life.

'I hate when Brooke leaves for away games...'


	8. Solidarity

Disclaimers apply!

Solidarity

It was a pretty big thing for Brooke McQueen to like a girl. Sure, she'd admit to _thoughts_ about other girls, but for it to be this girl, of all other girls made it pretty clear the universe had something out for her.

But Brooke McQueen was a firm believer in standing firm. She had loosened up about accepting big life changes, especially in terms of love, since debunking her superficial relationship with Josh. She just couldn't accept this right now. She had learned to accept Sam as her friend, as her half-kinda-only-by-strictest-definition-possible sister.

Nothing would distract her from the life she had planned out now.

Not any boy, not any girl.

No fluctuation in Mike and Jane's relationship.

Not the beach trip her parents had planned.

_Certainly_ not the skin tight diving suit Sam would be wearing on said beach trip.

Brooke bit her lip and stared out the window, blue sky crashing with clouds. Just like the ocean.

Nothing at all.


	9. Autumn

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, no one, no how, no way. Characters to Ryan Murphy.

**A/N:** Not going to promise anything, but here's an update. Wish me luck finishing more!

ALSO. I wanted to draw something bigger than any story I could tell to your attention: **S**am and **B**rooke, **S**erena and **B**lair, **S**antana and **B**rittany. All clearly (or subtextly) lesbian couples (or so I'm told, never watched/read Gossip Girl), but yeah, pretty sure there's some conspiracy there, what with those S and B names. Ahem.

**Prompt**: Autumn

* * *

Time for leaves, time to leave. Good thing she'd be back in a week. That little fact didn't stop Sam from kissing Brooke silly the day before the blonde jetted off to the other side of the country for a workshop.

"Brooooooke, you're such a tease."

"Sammie, you're such a dork…"

"Oh, really? Brooke, you're going to law school, right? Prove your case. I'm innocent of dorkustry until proven."

"Because you have evidence…?"

"I do. Those bedroom eyes, that seductive smirk. You say you'll go out with me, get me all hot" Sam sauntered over, slipping her hands under Brooke's loosely hanging hoodie, pulling Brooke's hips and torso into hers. She practically hissed the last word, emphasizing the warmth of her breath as it hit Brooke's neck, "…and bothered." She dropped her gaze, pouted, and looked off at the wall, "And then a week later you run off to the other side of the country. A tease. Every jury in the world would convict you."

"Well, you know me, I'm all about the teasing and not about the pleasing." Brooke twirled out of Sam's arms to her half packed suitcase strewn among various clothes on her bed. "And for all the laws and addendums I've decoded and memorized in the past week, I'm still trying to figure out why you conceded to dating me."

"Me too. Guess I'm just a masochist." Sam settled against the doorframe, watching lithe arms sort through clothes. "Can I at least help you pack?" _Get that bed cleared off a little faster…_

Brooke didn't entirely trust the smirk that accompanied that offer, but she directed Sam to her closet. "Find the light blue sweater."

"The one that makes you look really cute?"

"Yeah, Sam, that one." Brooke rolled her eyes.

"Oh, but that's all of them."

"Such a dork." Brooke's lips tightened into a smile and held back a chuckle. "The one with the lace around the cuffs." Sam shuffled through some clothes, then sauntered over to the bed, delicately laying the top in question atop the suitcase.

"There. All done." Brooke closed and zipped the suitcase. She shifted to look Sam in the eyes. "You're really gonna miss me, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, disconnecting her eyes from Brooke's before letting a bittersweet smile pull itself onto her lips. She made a small hmmf sound, and looked back up, the stream of hot tension reinstating itself between the two. "I actually, really think I will."

Brooke smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear, fluidly bridging the cold, unbearable physical gap between her hand and Sam's shoulders, letting gravity slide her hand down to Sam's stomach. A little pressure guided Sam back onto the plush pillowtop bed. Brooke sat, holding her place above Sam. Her right hand curled on Sam's shirt, in one motion slipping up under the fabric to press the taut skin underneath. She smiled as Sam gasped and tensed, delighting in the writhing, clenching muscle beneath her palm.

"Mmmm… too bad I'm just a tease." Brooke still hovered above Sam, biting her lower lip, challenging Sam with her eyes.

"Who inexplicably spends her time teasing a dork," came the husky reply from Sam.

"A _sexy_ dork." Brooke drew herself up, "_My_ sexy dork." She pressed herself down onto her sexy dork, slipping their bodies together, silencing the smirk that threatened to ruin their goodbyes.


	10. Boyfriends: Scourge of the Lesbian!

**Disclaimer: **No characters in this belong to me; they are the property of Ryan Murphy.

**A/N: **The first is devoid of fluff, the second is a little bit obscure. But I like them, and hope you do, too.

**Prompt: ** Boyfriend. They both have them. Neither wants one. Ignoring canon a little bit.

Jane bustled out of the kitchen, catching Sam as she plopped down on the couch. "Oh, Sam, honey, do you think George will be coming for dinner?"

"No... we... uh... we kind of broke up. Incompatible differences."

"Oh. Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here."

Sam took in a deep breath. Deep, deep, deep, deep enough, she hoped, to prevent her from saying what she was about to say.

"Actually, I kind of do want to talk about it." Jane turned, delicately striding over to the couch, sympathy out in droves from the urgency in Sam's voice.

"What is it?"

"I think... I mean... I broke up with him." Sam paused, tears threatening to overwhelm her eloquence, "because I think I'm in love with... or I really like someone else."

"Oh, darling, that's alright, it happens and you can't help-"

"Mom, just, hear me out," Sam took a big gulp of air, "IkindofthinkIreallylikeagirl."

Jane was silent.

A little 'hnph' of air escaped, and Sam smirked.

"I know it's a shock, mom, I'm kind of still reeling from it." Sam mumbled. She didn't cry very often, speech was never overwhelming for her, but something like this, that had been ricocheting around inside for the better part of a month, was too harrowing to hold in anymore.

A short while passed before Jane spoke again, voice wavering but intent on staying even.

"It's comforting, I suppose, to see that your kid is growing up just like all the others. Makes your job seem a little bit easier. But when it comes down it, thinking "comforting" thoughts is the worst way to be a parent. It's the worst feeling in the world when you find out that the situations that made you feel safe, made your child feel terrible."

She looked at her daughter, the petulant, beautiful, strong, sweet Sammie, reached out to brush away her tears, and pulled her into a hug.

"But it's my job to worry about that. Your only worry should be doing what's right for you. I love you, Sam, and nothing will ever change that."

"Thank you."

* * *

Jaime. He was sweet, exciting, handsome and romantic. He was pretty much a perfect boyfriend.

Sometimes, he was just fun to hang out with. Sometimes, he gave Brooke butterflies in her stomach.

But for all the butterflies floating around her stomach, none were comparable to the ones she was seeing now.

Mostly because (for some nearly inexplicable reason), McKinley High thought that a field trip to the zoo was appropriate for its students. For its Chemistry students. Regardless, Ms. Glass had persuaded her entire class to fill out the forms and pay the fees, apparently just so she could trap them in the insect building and regale them with the violent mating rituals of various arthropods.

So, Brooke was now seeing her stomach inhabitants manifest. There was something extra vibrant about these butterflies. Jaime wasn't there, though. Just the sly, arrogant, intensity that was Sam McPherson. And Sam, she gave Brooke fireflies. Lightning bolts starting in the pit of Brooke's stomach, working their way up to her chest where they glowed and fluttered out to the tips of her fingers and curled her toes, and made everything around her glow just a little bit. And that made these butterflies noticeably more wonderful than the ones Jaime gave her.

Brooke leaned against a banister in front of the butterfly tank, musing on the educational effectiveness of field trips.

"I wonder if they pin these on the wall, too, when they die." A sarcastic siren call found its way into Brooke's ears, drawing her eyes from the fluttering beauties to her other.

She responded with a smirk "Sam McPherson: eternal optimist. Be glad Lilly didn't hear that…"

"Oh, I did. And I think it's outrageous what is done to these poor creatures. Not just butterflies, but locking animals in cages for our entertainment?" Lilly paused to adjust the 'With zoos, we all lose' shirt she had on, than continued on her personal seminar.

Sam, though not ignoring her friend, diverted her attention long enough to give Brooke a small smirk.

And at that smirk, Brooke decided to break up with Jaime. (It was convenient that he had been cheating on her, so she didn't have to explain the real reason.)

And the fireflies lit a bonfire.


	11. Tryst

**Disclaimer: **Characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Oh wait I have nothing to say

**Prompt:** Idea came from any number of bathroom tryst themed fics. I think specifically it was a Rachel/Quinn fic, from Glee, which is also the intellectual property of Ryan Murphy.

* * *

Sam figured once or twice, no one would notice. It would be perfectly ok, it wasn't like anyone knew they were together. Perfectly O-K, no suspicions whatsoever, lots of people did it. It would all be fine.

She did her best to reassure herself, building up the courage to raise her hand. She was surprised by how normal and relaxed her voice was when she said, "Ms. Glass, Brooke's been gone for a while and she looked a little sick, I'm gonna go check on her if that's alright."

"Why not, McPherson? Normally I'd just say, "survival of the fittest" and let McQueen puke it out, but mama got some sugar last night, do whatever you want."

Sam could practically feel the eyes of her classmates boring through her, but she chalked it up to over-active nerves.

But when she opened the door to the Novac and was immediately pressed against the door, lips and a tongue replacing the dryness in her mouth, feverish hands replacing the fabric around her hips, Sam's nerves forgot about the classroom.


	12. Wet

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Nothin' to say. Thanks to my Beta. Both the fish and the editor.

**Prompt: **Wet

Brooke was wearing lip gloss today. Not that it was some special occasion, or that she didn't wear it often, but it was one of those days when she was extra noticeable, when she looked entirely perfect, when she turned the heads of otherwise immobile statues. Much of the population of Kennedy High would spend at least a few moments of the day wondering what had caused that extra little sparkle, why Brooke McQueen was just that much more beautiful. Much of the population of Kennedy High would dismiss it as Brooke just being Brooke.

Sam McPherson was not, however, in tune with much of the population of Kennedy High. She often purposefully avoided conforming to the general attitudes and thought processes of the masses.

She was a journalist. It was her job to get to the bottom of the pervasive mysteries that confounded her peers.

So, when she noticed the extra sparkle in Brooke McQueen, she spent the better part of her day wondering what caused it.

On this particular day, it took until fifth period for her to figure it out. English class was fraught with discussions, but more importantly, a handout. It was the moment that Brooke turned around to pass the stack of papers to Sam that it all clicked into place. Sam's grunt of thanks and eyebrow raise coaxed a small, polite smile from the elusively gorgeous party, which drew Sam's attention immediately to Brooke's (extra shiny, extra kissable) mouth.

Later that night, Sam found her hard evidence. Brooke had left the lip gloss container lying on her side of the sink. Sam picked it up, examining the label for some magic ingredient that made Brooke look so…Brooke. All she found was the name, "Desert Oasis", which she quickly decided was a stupid name. Stupid, but surprisingly pertinent, she supposed, as Brooke slid past, offering a smile as she reached for her toothbrush, because Sam suddenly felt dehydrated and flushed, stranded in a desert, sands of desire biting at her skin.

And a month later, when Sam took her first drink from those oasis lips- long, cool kisses to contrast with the rapidly flaring desert-fire racing across her skin, she knew her thirst would never be sated.


	13. Constant

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, they're Ryan Murphy's.

**A/N: **This time, like most times, I don't have anything to say, I just like having three bold sections up top.

**Prompt: **Constant

Sam had begun to notice how addictive a personality she had. Every week since Brooke had called Sam out on her oral fixation (_God, Sam, you're always moving your tongue around, why don't you just get it pierced?_), Sam found herself jumping to new fixations in an effort against her unconscious habit.

Most of them had to do with Brooke.

For the past three weeks, Sam had been so utterly captivated by Brooke – her hair, her eyes, her gait, the way she smiled at friends, how she pushed herself in Glamazon practice, the way her brow furrowed when she didn't understand a particular math problem, how her mood jumped here and there. Sam's personal favorite had been the three day span of utter fascination during which Brooke had forgotten her gym clothes, and had to borrow some extra form fitting workout shorts from Nicole.

Her most recent obsession, however, was a bit less raging-teenage-hormone induced. Sam had spent the better part of her day watching Brooke's fingers. She watched intently the way they tapped against the desk when Brooke was bored, but energetic (it was reminiscent of the way they tapped against Sam's skin when they went to bed at night, and Brooke wasn't quite as bored, but still energetic), the way Brooke chewed on the ends of them when she was nervous (Sam was less rough when she kissed Brooke's fingertips), and how she absentmindedly laced them into her hair (Sam loved the way the long, smooth fingers laced with hers, delicately, absentmindedly, but perfectly).

Though she liked to think she loved everything about Brooke equally, Sam took guilty pleasure in this one addiction, because even if feelings, or thoughts, or moments were fleeting, it comforted Sam to know that she could always hold Brooke's hand.


	14. Pep

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or canon story, those are intellectual property of Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **N/A

**Prompt: **Pep

Sam hated being mushy. There was no reason for it. With two such passionate, confident, intelligent, demanding people, you'd think she wouldn't be tempted to stoop to buying a dozen roses, writing some dopey love sonnet like she had done in middle school.

Not that there was anything wrong with poetry, or romance in general. On the contrary, showering Brooke in roses, whispering French seductions between kisses (of the same nationality), candlelit dinners; she was sure such clichés had some clout to their claims.

She just couldn't stand the way her heart felt shaky and her hands felt unsure as she walked up to Brooke, bouquet in hand. In all the scenes she'd played out in her head, she had strode up confidently, practically sweeping Brooke off her feet, whispering some (admittedly cheesy) confession, and they had waltzed off to a bedroom for an endless night of excellent lesbian sex.

But now, as she approached the target of her affections she wondered if she was doing it wrong. Recent lunch table conversations had yielded talk of spontaneity and simple honesty being the most romantic thing. She should do something else, something less prepared, something that she didn't have to do right now while her nerves were acting up. No, it wasn't like it was Valentine's Day or anything, she _was_ being spontaneous. She shook her head, clearing it of reservations, preparing it for the pep talk her confidence had prepared.

_You're Sam Goddamn McPherson! Grow some balls, woman! Brooke McQueen is dating **you**, and you have every right in the world to be spontaneously, sickly romantic with her.'_

She breathed out all her tension, set her jaw, and strode up to Brooke, roses hidden behind her back.

"Brooke, I have something for you." In her mind, Sam had sorta done something more smooth than unceremoniously force the bouquet into Brooke's hands, but she supposed she'd have to make do.

"Wha-? Aww, how sweet!" The flowers spread a wide eyed smile across Brooke's face, though moments later her eyes narrowed in half joking suspicion. "What is this for, what do you want?"

"I just felt like it." Her eyes and poise wandered off momentarily, but were quickly regained along with her trademark smirk. "And all I want…" she paused methodically, closing all but a few hot, tempting millimeters between her and Brooke, and let all of her lust drop into her final two words, "Is you."

Brooke's lips dropped into a shocked "O" just before being captured by Sam's demanding mouth. The shock of how ridiculously hot her girlfriend had been gave her a few moments pause before she melted, acquiescing to Sam's dominating kisses, body reverberating with the husky, overpowering sexiness that had just rendered her thought processing capabilities useless.

The roses lay on the lovely white carpet, forgotten, idly looking up at the soft grey couch, where a truer definition of romance was being coined.


	15. Dress

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, they're Ryan Murphy's.

**A/N: **This time, like most times, I don't have anything to say, I just like having three bold sections up top. It's classy, yeah?

**Prompt: **Dress (OMG-It's from Livejournal Community which I now know exists!)

* * *

Brooke had been hesitant at first, going wedding dress shopping with Sam and Jane. She concerned herself greatly with tradition, and didn't know how appropriate it was. Granted, nothing about her situation fit within normal boundaries. Mike and Jane's wedding had honestly thrown them for a loop. Regardless, there she was, delicately fingering the lacey white gowns, listening to the chatter of clerks and customers.

Of course, while Jane was checking on the bridesmaids dresses, the clerk halted her fluttering around and asked Brooke The Question, "Would you like to try it on?"

Who was Brooke to say no?

"Stunning." Sam smiled from the corner.

"Sam! Where's your sense of tradition? You're not supposed to see her before the wedding!"

Sam just slid her arms around Brooke's waist and kissed her bride-to-be on the cheek.


	16. Labels

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Eh, Eh, nothing else I can say. (Is that a song? I don't even know.) Also, they're essentially three different drabbles. Read them as such, is my suggestion.

**Prompt: **Labels

* * *

Sam never really considered herself a lipstick lesbian. She was an agent of truth, and whatever haven she found in words while reporting was lost when it came to finding a label for her. She was definitely a lesbian- three _very_ satisfying (but still not-Brooke) ex-girlfriends and Brooke were more than enough validation for her on that matter. Sure, she wore makeup, but there was worn flannel in her wardrobe, and paired with Brooke she could at least call herself a tomboy. Her reverie was broken by Brooke's entrance, all heels and loose buttons and seduction, not noticing or caring what kind of lipstick smeared where. Antiquated labels were antiquated, anyway.

* * *

Brooke never really considered herself a lesbian. Sure, she was in a committed relationship with someone of undeniable female persuasion, and would _totally_ jump in bed with Jordana Brewster (she wasn't _insane_), but in general she just didn't have time to think about gender politics. And with Sam next to her, who needed to think about other options? So when life called for her to define her sexual orientation, she simply wrote in a fourth option. ("Sam" was just as descriptive as any other label, to her, at least. The person asking usually looked confused for a few moments, than wilted under Brooke's confident stare.)

* * *

Sam wasn't going to be jealous. She refused it. Jealousy was detrimental to her- it meant people had things that she wanted, and she wasn't greedy. She was above jealousy.

It's not like she was jealous of Brooke's shirt, getting to hug the blonde like that all day. It's not like her idle thoughts involved falling asleep with Brooke in her arms, wrapped in comfort and blanketed by the heavy, sweet smell of her shampoo mixing with the light, breezy smell of warm clothing. It wasn't like she noticed the tag of a new sleeping t shirt nipping angrily at the back of Brooke's neck last night, wondering in between flickers of the tv if she might replace it with more well intentioned nibbles.

She wasn't greedy, and she wasn't jealous. But as Brooke walked by, new outfit form fitting and flattering, Sam decided that she WAS, at least, human.


	17. Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life for Me!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Filler A/N, and ta daaaa!

**Prompt: **Treasure

* * *

Sam always like the idea of hidden treasures- valuables buried deep underground, to be discovered only by a chance explorer.

And when Brooke smiles like that, Sam swears she shines brighter and more precious than any stone could ever hope. And loathe as Sam may be to admit it, one look in Brooke's eyes, and Sam's outfitted for a safari and exploring the depths of her features, discovering hidden treasures. Some of it's barely buried beneath her smile, revealed in the ebb and flow of her laughter. Some of it swirls in dangerous traps of insecurity laid in those hazel- sandy eyes. The boldest treasures show in great ruby red flames as Brooke launches into a passionate verbal defense, her beliefs standing like some ancient, prescient relic. Antiques of wisdom and ever morphing crystalline wonders - it's scattered all though Brooke, waiting for some desperate thief to stumble through and cherish its radiance.

And on days like this, when Brooke's smiling silk and priceless beauty, Sam feels just rebellious enough to attempt piracy.


	18. Color Theorists

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Of every guilty and pure pleasure, there is nothing more wonderful in this world than paint on skin on skin contact.

**Prompt: **Colors, colors, paint, paint.

* * *

Sam felt awfully jilted when she found out the creative writing class she had planned on taking was full. Brooke felt the same when her music theory class had been canceled due to lack of interest. Their simultaneous disappointment transformed into a less potent feeling– something bittersweet- when they found themselves funneled into a Color Theory class together. Sure, neither had ever particularly excelled at the visual arts, and neither had quite gotten to the point of admitting that they enjoyed having a class together, but expanding creative abilities was always a good thing. And the teacher was easy. Very artsy, very liberal, very open minded. A textbook 'perfect art teacher'.

And today, "to get their bodies and minds working together to really _feel_ the color", they were finger painting. Sam was working big smears of a summer field into her paper, while Brooke delicately detailed a portrait of an owl. It was fun, of course, but so much tactile stimulation had them both a bit worked up. They might not have been entirely enlightened as to the origin of their urges, but any excuse to have their hands on each other was a good one, as prior food/tickle/padded bat fights had taught them.

All it took was a sly provocation from Sam (so, maybe Brooke's owl looked kind of like a salamander, not a big deal), and they had their excuse. Brooke paused, swirling some white into her nightshade blue, a pastel calm before the storm- a storm that hit seconds later in a wide splatter of deep blue across the right side of Sam's face and a smug grin on Brooke's lips. The wide eyed disbelief plastered on Sam's face melted down to her palms, which she dragged through a smattering of yellow, then reached out and not-so-gently cupped Brooke's cheeks, coating them in semi-liquid sunshine. Everything after that was a whirl of color schemes, red and ochre arcing through the air, tetrads dancing across the floor and desks in a chaotic waltz, analogous wheels rolling across their abdomens.

Minutes later, and there they sat in the cherry stained chairs of Kennedy High's administrative office, awaiting an arraignment from the authorities- Brooke a collage of sunflower yellows and greens, Sam dripping violet and blue mystery. They were supposed to be angry at each other; or at least figuring out how to explain why they had just redecorated the art room (and several fellow students) like they were Jackson Pollack incarnate. But every turn of their inquisitor's back only yielded stolen glances and secretive smiles.

The secret those glances held was as irrepressible as all the great theories and philosophies of the world-universal and intuitively understood, but escaping any definition by the pens of even the greatest poets and scientists. And yet, it governed every move and thought. A secret lauded and explored by every notable thinker since history began, now trapped in a spark between the brushing of the fingers of two girls as they walked shoulder-to-shoulder out the office door. Each finger of Brooke flashed complimentary to those on Sam's, a memory, a tribute to color theorists from years gone by.

Yellow and violet, red and green, blue and orange, Sam and Brooke- opposites on the color wheel, both intense and a little bit discordant, but nothing else fits the composition so right.


	19. Scarf

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, they're Ryan Murphy's.

**A/N: **This time, like most times, I don't have anything to say, I just like having three bold sections up top.

**Prompt: **Scarf

* * *

It was a chilly day, wind cutting through any thickness or layering of coats. Brooke was cold.

Brooke loved her scarf, especially on days like today. It wasn't designer by any means, but that was the importance of it. A little tag sewn onto a corner read "Handmade with love by Sam McPherson". It had taken Sam four months of dedicated, covert knitting to finish the project.

It only took the thought of Sam, grinning and waiting for her by an antique fireplace, maybe some hot cocoa in hand, to block the slicing cold. Brooke waited for the bus, snuggling down into the scarf, warmth seeping back into her blood. She inhaled through the yarn, and her mind drifted back to the day Sam had presented her finished project to her.

She recalled the satin ribbon that had bound the scarf in a neat bundle before Christmas. When it was untied and free, Sam had draped it across Brooke's back, pulling the sensuous red line across her curves in patterns of unadulterated wonder.

And the poem that Sam had given her, written in flowing letters across that ribbon, recited in French to her through a warm smile and scattered kisses.

She loved these as the few reminders of Sam's touch and voice- the only memories that hadn't faded since Sam's death.

Brooke was cold again.


	20. Escapism

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **Nooooooo commmmmment. I feel like this is one of the less coherent pieces. It's one I wouldn't mind if people picked it apart *hint hint* please free Beta me *cough hint***  
**

**Prompt: **"I once dated a first grade teacher. She put gold stars all over my body. That was **_hot_**."

* * *

Reading was Sam's favorite form of escapism. A close second was writing. The worst thing about her move to the McQueen McMansion was the endless writer's block that came with it. Her family home had been cozy, familiar, comfortable. She had found the most creative nooks and crannies. Most importantly, there was a pleasant little park a few minutes' walk from there, where Sam had sat beneath a tree, letting the sun and inspiration soak in. But the move had torn her away from the park and the tree, and the years of nostalgia grown in with its bark. Now that it was a good 45 minute walk away, finding the time to simply write was near impossible.

She could still write articles for school, no brutal injustice was going to slip from her eye just because of some silly writer's block. But the stories, the worlds that had once so effortlessly flowed had gotten jammed up in her pen, lost in four letter words and unfamiliar settings. She supposed it was actually a boon; she was maturing into her craft. Articles and essays were just as important as poems and prose. But in sifting through old journals, she couldn't help but burn with some bittersweet longing for the creative outpour of her younger days.

Then one day, Brooke smiled at her. Singled her out, walked over, and smiled. Their shoulders had even brushed a little bit. She considered Sam a friend, the most familiar face in a room full of people they had spent their lives with. Sam was breathless.

And suddenly, Sam's writer's block was gone. As fast as it came, Brooke's driver's license came faster. While most of the mileage on the car was made in trips to shopping malls and Nicole's house, Brooke had taken to driving around with Sam on lazy Sunday afternoons. Somewhere in their tentative friendship, Brooke had discovered some comfort in Sam. For how hell bent they had once been on destroying each other, Brooke found herself taking shelter in Sam's gaze. Whatever judgment she had feared was gone from the brunette's eyes, replaced by some mild appreciation- something that was slowly being cultivated into adoration. It was under this rare, affectionate spotlight that Brooke began to feel energized. It was something hereto nameless, but it had stretched and molded its way into the cytoplasm of every cell of her body, releasing serotonin with every glance. The massive rerouting of her neurotransmitters had pulled Brooke into the task of getting to know Sam. It wasn't very difficult- something about winding through suburban neighborhoods garnered trust like nothing short of bribery could.

And so, in a burst of whimsy, Sam navigated them back to her old neighborhood, to the little park that had housed so many fantasies in years before.

"I think that I shall never see/ a poem as lovely as a tree." She had carved that into a small piece of wood and buried it beneath this tree about 10 years ago. Though her teacher (conservative old biddy she was), had protested her recitation of the poem (namely the words "breast" and "bosom") in the third grade, Sam had been enamored by Kilmer's linguistic triumph for a time, spurred on by enthusiastic recitations by her father. Sam leaned back into the tree, feeling like she was getting a hug from her childhood. Without so much as a second's hesitation, she flipped open her journal and was drawing out poems and prose like a beast.

Brooke concluded her bout of ambling, and walked over and sat down right next to Sam.

Sam's face screwed into a pout as she pulled her journal to her chest. "No, this is my tree."

"Your tree? Pretty sure it's the park's tree."

Sam frowned, searching for reason to be defensive, but was interrupted by the wind knocking some loose papers from her hands, stealing it away across the park. The scattered paper was followed by a muttered expletive as Sam ran after them, relinquishing her spot to Brooke. The blonde watched as Sam dodged an elderly couple on rollerblades, vaguely wondering if she should help, before shifting back into the trunk.

No sooner had her head lolled back into the shade than a little glimmer of metal around the other side of the tree caught Brooke's eye. She crawled over, leaning close to the faded shine. Her fingers skirted over top, gently brushing away some leaves and dirt. When that action wasn't revealing enough, she dug down into the cool earth, pulling away layers of time and grime to reveal an old plaque. Squinting, she was able to make out the engraving, "This oak tree dedicated to Joe McPherson- husband and father, who planted the seeds of many incredible journeys."

The moment she finished reading, she jumped back, startled by Sam's timely re-arrival.

"I… I'm sorry. I guess it really is your tree." Brooke was sullen in her embarrassment, but Sam's effortless smile swept away all the worry.

"Nah... It's fine. I overreacted. But I'm charging you for the air you breathe while you're here."

"Your generosity astounds me." Sam decided that the way Brooke's face scrunched when she smiled was as inspired a masterpiece as the sum of her childhood imagination. She reclaimed her spot against the trunk and slid down, laying flat against the earth, journal and pen in the air above her head.

Brooke's eyes swept Sam's stretched out body, and she couldn't resist. She flipped onto her back and laid her head on Sam's stomach, feeling the rise and fall of Sam's breath, every heart beat issuing declarations of life. She tried to focus on the clouds, so brilliantly framed by the vibrant waves of the sky, but in seconds they all faded into white obscurity- meaningless relics of a world outside of Sam. The only things left in Brooke's world were Sam and the smile on her own face.

"Remember when they would give us gold stickers for sharing?" Brooke dug around in her purse, intent on some mysterious prize.

"You earned this." She smiled and pressed her finger to Sam's forehead, then pulled back, leaving a small, five pointed shimmer attached to Sam's skin. She beamed at Sam, but quickly scrunched her face in displeasure. Before the brunette could say anything, Brooke leaned in and affixed the star with a kiss. When she pulled back she was greeted by the most adorably confused expression on Sam's face. Her eyes were a swirling fight for dominance between the confusion and the affection that normally resided there. The words resulting from the internal battle were equally unsure.

"Are you drunk?"  
"Only on the summer sun!"

Sam raised her eyebrows, skeptical of Brooke's unprompted joy. What most concerned her was how utterly infectious Brooke's smile was. She could feel it clawing at the inside of her lips, pushing at the muscles in her cheeks.

It was right as Brooke lowered herself back to the soft grass that Sam slipped and smirked, but it didn't matter much because the rest of the frenetic energy was pushed into her fingers as she swiped the pad of gold stars from Brooke's hands, deftly plucking three choice stickers, and pressing them to Brooke's nose, cheek, and chin. Mimicking Brooke's seal, she followed up with three quick kisses, taking exact care not to miss the stars. The energy fizzled out as she parted with the last star, drawing Sam into a lingering retreat. She slowed to an absolute halt at eye level, transfixed by Brooke's smiling eyes.

A mild breeze teased at Sam's hair, but they had reached a stalemate. Sam refused to move, instantly timid. Brooke was pretty darn comfy, cradled by soft grass and the warmth of Sam's body, looking into the majestic skies set in Sam's starry eyes. She was tempted so much to call these moments forever and bask in them for their namesake, but positions like this called for action.

So with childlike, deliberate movements Brooke fumbled for the sheet of stars, peeled one off, and tried to suppress a giggle as she left it shining on Sam's lower lip. Sam barely had time to look surprised before Brooke's smile was pressed against hers, pulling lightly until Sam got her bearings and responded in kind.

Some undocumented amount of time passed before Sam's back twitched some disagreement about being hunched over for so long, even though her head felt like it had been filled with helium. That would have explained why her voice was a little bit squeaky as it recovered in gasping breaths.

"That was... unexpected."

Brooke cocked an eyebrow, raising herself from the ground, face a masterpiece of effortless smugness. "For you, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam was still a little bit flustered, but Brooke had laced their arms together, all the way down to their fingers

Brooke's reply was an oddly peaceful sigh, "Sam, honey, I'm Brooke McQueen. I know everything."

The tree rustled its approval, an otherworldly nod of agreement. Sam fingered the edge of her journal. Moving on was fine. Her other hand traced some absentminded paragraph across Brooke's arm. If this was how her writing style was planning to mature, she could bank that she'd never have writer's block again.


	21. Trip

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N:** COUGHCOUGHCOUGH**  
**

**Prompt: **Camp

* * *

Camping trips. Sam loved taking them in the fall. The crisp air burned with the autumnal colors of the Southern Oregon campground they frequented, and she felt pure there. Brooke was more of spring and summer kind of person, life bursting at the seams with green and flowers and warmth, the weekend trips to the Californian parks. When camping season was declared official, they were off into the wilderness.

It was the second weekend when Sam realized how literal a trip it was; she had fallen right into Brooke's heart. The clumsiness was equal on both sides; Brooke found herself holding onto Sam for dear life.

School and home had decreed them closeted and off-limits to each other, but out where nature held no judgment they were simply two people, ageless and boundless, free to their minds. Out, where they could find just how wonderful the world could be when they both smiled.

Brooke always had to initiate contact- shifting for some warmth the crackling fire couldn't provide, all the while keeping some dispute going as cover- lingering relics of their non-relationship in the real world.

Whispers of fog held the fading murmurs of an argument, swirling right up to their skin and condensing into a flurry of warm stings. There wasn't enough disagreement to fill their lungs the whole way, though, so the ends of the exhalations were full of silent questions and answers. They treasured the inhalations- pure each other with earthy masks of smoke and wood.

And in the morning, when even the flowers were weeping (overwhelmed at the sheer perfection, no doubt), the lavender's tears soaking them down to their achy bones, they smiled a bit, and wrapped themselves further into the indelible warmth of each other.

These were their bleak comforts before moving back into the sub-reality of high school, where nothing had – and ever would- happen between them.


	22. Night Terrors

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or canon story, those are intellectual property of Ryan Murphy

**A/N: **N/A

**Prompt: **):**  
**

* * *

Brooke was dead.

Sam was fucking frozen. Frozen in a haze of guilt and mourning, and when that overrode her brain, she had nothing but to get lost in a sea of cold stares, wandering the streets for some semblance of warmth or humanity. Addictions strained an artificial rush through her veins, but no force fed heat could come close to Brooke.

Even when she sobered up, reality was hardly even real. Time stretched on forever, a hallucinated mesh for her to stumble through. Alone.

Tracing the deep black lines of the tombstone was the last sensory stimulation she would ever register. Never before had Sam been so utterly struck by her own horrific mortality.

And never before was she so relieved to wake up heaving, feverish and crying in Brooke's arms.


	23. Scrabble

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, they're Ryan Murphy's.

**A/N: **Out of everything that gets called lame in this, I think I am the only one who is lame. They are always drugged up when I write them. WTF is my problem.

**Prompt: **Drunken Scrabble

* * *

"Strip poker is so lame." Sam's voice sliced right through middle of the not-too-loud roar of her dorm room.

It was a small gathering- the old gang had stopped by for a night of catching up, and studying the bottoms of beer bottles. The event had become a monthly occurrence since Brooke decided a three hour drive was more than bearable if it meant seeing Sam. Harrison was practically on the way, and Lily had ended up in the same school as Sam, albeit in a slightly larger dorm room across campus. Carmen was following her passion in a small dance school a good 6 hours away, but occasionally managed to make it back for the reunions. The group, joined by Lily's roommates and several of Sam's college friends was at present trying to decide on a course of action.

"Sam, you're only saying that because you lose." Brooke's eyes squinted hazily as she smirked at the brunette only to be met with an obstinate glare. "Fine. What would you have us play, then?"

Sam was prepared, stretching out to grab the corner of a box from under her desk. She fumbled at first, but quickly recovered and emphatically slammed the box in front of her.

Harrison smiled at Sam's choice, making an enthusiastic remark. "Scrabble! The thinking drunk's game."

Brooke was moderately more skeptical of the game choice. "I am a drunk who thinks that Scrabble is lame."

"What's the matter Brooke? Intimidated by my preposterously impressive vocabulary?" Sam's smug level was off the charts. It experienced a crash however, when she flung the lid off the box only to find an incomplete set - the board was nowhere in sight. Her displeasure dribbled out of her mouth. "Well, fuuuuuuck."

"Strip poker it is!"

"No. We're still playing."

"Sammie…"

"We're playing, Brooke." Sam's verbal finality had grown since their high school arguments.

Sam kicked her desk, dislodging a fine black marker from its resting place. Two more kicks and it was on the ground right next to her. Sam couldn't resist the proud grin sneaking onto her face as she picked up the marker. She hadn't even stood up. She was a crafty one, inebriation and all. And she was about to get craftier.

In lieu of a board, Sam's master plan was to substitute her own skin. Her hand crawled up underneath her shirt, exposing her stomach. Harsh black lines cut across the soft, smooth curves of her torso. She furrowed her brow as she counted out the squares, nudging her shirt up ever so slightly with every movement.

If Brooke hadn't been thinking about jumping Sam before (she had), her sights were dead set on target now.

"Sam, how about we use paper, instead?" Brooke kind of wanted to slap Harrison. He was a nice guy. She liked him. But sometimes, he just didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

"Oh." The marker dropped out of Sam's hands and rolled across the floor.

"See, we might as well be playing strip poker, you're so desperate to get naked."

Sam frowned a mighty frown and glared at Brooke. "So, maybe you and I are on the same page, finally."

Brooke's retort was a little bit halted. Of course Sam had intended it as an insult and nothing more, but there was some convoluted possibility of a double entendre in the statement, and Brooke's brain was more than occupied with finding it.

Her lack of response was thankfully cut off by Lily's assessment of the time.

"Actually, we should probably head back to my room. It's sleeping time for sure."

Sam stumbled to the door, hugging goodbye to all her friends. She was undoubtedly the most sloshed of them all. As she parted from Harrison, she stumbled back into the door frame. Brooke reached out a hand to steady the wobbling form.

"I'll take care of her." The group nodded and dispersed to Lily's room, finally crashing into the silent morning. Sam leaned against the wall, smiling heavily at Brooke's figure as it moved to dim the lights.

"You've got me al-lo-one." The words lifted from Sam's lips in a lilting sing song voice, the one where Brooke could never tell if Sam was trying to seduce her as much as Brooke ended up being seduced.

She considered briefly how ordinarily disappointing this visit would be. Habit had it all planned out- she would help Sam make it to the bed, rub some soothing circles out of her impending hangover, they would fall asleep and wake up the next day still trapped in their arguments. And most importantly, not each others' pants.

But Brooke's tongue had its own habit of moving before she could think, and it had had enough of habit's twisted masochism. So there it went, directing her lips onto Sam's, pulling the pads of her fingertips in tickling delicacy across the brunette's cheeks. Like they had done this every night for the rest of their lives, like it was the first time they had ever met. Caution was thrown to the wind as every fiber in her being that had shuddered in repressed want was released from its cage and dedicated to drawing moans from Sam's vocal cords.

And Sam was eagerly returning the favor pressing hot, open kisses down Brooke's neck, fingers trying to decide between unbuttoning Brooke's jeans and slipping past them altogether. Her haste decided on the latter, affirmed by a gasp and shudder as Brooke gripped the back of Sam's neck. Sam was blindly grinding ecstasy up into Brooke, and Brooke was letting her know through the slurred repetition of her name.

They slowed down, Sam's fingers clumsily brushing over the nerves around Brooke's hips. A few minutes of getting swept away in each others' heavy breathing and Sam gradually collapsed onto Brooke.

"Brooooooooke."

"Yes, Sammie?"

"I'm really drunk." Brooke took a shorter than usual breath- if Sam was going to brush that off as a drunken mistake, she was gonna _flip __**shit**_. Fortunately, Sam shifted and pulled her head up to reveal a satisfied smirk, "We'll have to do this again tomorrow when I'm not."


	24. Piece

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and no one, the characters belong to Ryan Murphy

**A/N:** I just downloaded OpenOffice, which is all fine and good, but it has this autocomplete feature. So every time I type "hand" it suggests "handcuffed", and for "most" it suggests "mostly-naked". Makes me want to reexamine my writing...

**Prompt: **Romantic

* * *

Brooke was amazed, sometimes, at how romantic Sam was. She probably shouldn't be surprised- Sam had been writing the sappiest poetry for her friends since childhood- but every time anonymous flowers showed up on her desk, or she found a little note on the back of her work papers, she felt treasured and so utterly loved. Or when Brooke would walk into their bedroom after a long day at work to find Sam covered in nothing more than red roses, a portrait of absolute lust. It was _inspiring_ to say the least.

And it was reflection on all of this that had Brooke where she was now. Standing in the kitchen hunched over a bowl, mixing as much profanity into the batter as sugar. Sources said it was "a piece of cake to bake a pretty cake". Clearly her sources had never met Brooke McQueen. She was more of a books smarts person- theory over application. But still she swore for every sweet word and unprompted kiss Sam had dropped in the last five years, she would bake this goddamn cake.

"Brooke?" Sam peeked around the corner. She had heard some fumbling and cursing coming from the kitchen when she opened the door. Brooke in the kitchen was seldom a good sign. She rounded the refrigerator to see Brooke staring intently at a bowl of something, surrounded by puffs of flour and chaos. "Put the mixer down before you hurt yourself."

Brooke was not ready to relinquish her Kitchenaid appliance. "No, Sammie. This is my destiny. I will fulfill it."

Truth be told, Sam was a little bit scared. Still, she moved forward to stand behind her love, half ready to hold her, half ready to restrain her. "Brooke."

"I said no. I have to. It's not right."

Sam's voice softened considerably as she pulled herself against Brooke and tried a comforting murmur from behind. "What's not right?"

Brooke stood straight up, leaning into Sam and just barely letting defeat creep into her voice, "You're always there with flowers and poems and you're so romantic, and I can't even bake a_ goddamnmotherfucking _cake."

Sam couldn't help pushing a smile into the side of Brooke's neck. "That's what you're worried about? God, Brooke, you're ridiculous."

The ridiculous blonde in question whipped around, aiming to defend herself, "Ridiculous? I'm trying to do something nice-"

"But you already do." Sam's expression was set in that half-smirk-but-deadly-serious way and Brooke couldn't speak anymore, so Sam filled in the silence with a low half-whisper, "Every day, I wake up to the most beautiful smile, and these eyes that make me melt, and you lean over and kiss me. And it's a million times more romantic than anything I could ever design."

Sam watched Brooke's brain explode. She could do nothing more than add another atom bomb as she brought one of Brooke's limp hands up to her mouth and ran her tongue along one batter coated finger, nibbling lightly on the tip.

"Besides, I can think of something I'd rather eat than cake."


End file.
